


Seeing in Shades

by Etheostoma



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Belle's time in the hospital wasn't fun at all, Gen, Introspection, Pre-curse-break, Rumbelle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 14:20:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13638024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etheostoma/pseuds/Etheostoma
Summary: There should be more—more to life, more than this, more color. Black and white were the extremes, grey the intermediate, but there were so many pigments that should be there that simply weren't.One-shot drabble from Belle's time in the hospital, written way back in the early days of the show.





	Seeing in Shades

**Author's Note:**

> So, regardless of what this show has turned into, I used to adore it way on back in note early days. This was originally posted on Fanfiction.net December 2012, and I actually really freaking like it so I wanted to bring it over here as well.

There were three colors in her life—black, white, and grey.

Inside, here in her little holding cell ( _room_ , they called it, but there was nothing about the place that even remotely resembled a room) there was grey, ash-and charcoal-colored walls enclosing her perimeter, dark ceiling and floor compressing her from above and below. Outside, through the dark ( _black_ ) slit in the door, there was the sterile white of the hospital, gleaming ivory floors flawlessly matched to the whitewashed walls and ceilings. There was no artwork, no pictures or evidence of life, vibrancy, or happiness decorating the walls in this corner of the hospital.

Belle felt as though she should be able to remember color, that there should be memories and feelings associated with the words green, blue, red and  _gold_ , but her mind drew a blank every time. There were only black, white, and the murky grey produced by their union.

Black was the worst, creeping up on her when they clicked off the meager bulb that accounted for her illumination, taking away her sole connection to light and leaving her alone in the darkness—as they had every night, unfailingly, for longer than she could even remember. There should be more to her life than this, more than the grey room and white restriction and black night.

There was a woman who came, sometimes, looking through the slot in the door and whispering white lies straight from the depths of her ink-black heart. Belle never responded, never gave any indication that the woman's venom touched her at all, closed off her mind and sank into a haze _(grey_ ) of unfeeling, unthinking solitude.

It was easier, that way, to pass the days, slipping seamlessly through the weeks as time blended and blurred in a whirling circle. She never could tell how long she had been here, alone and isolated and removed from independence and the world as a whole. There was no day, no night—only black and white, grey and greyer, a growing sense of helplessness and hopelessness gnawing at an unbreakable steel spirit beginning to grow notched around the edges.

There should be more to her life than this.

There should be sunshine and laughter (yellow), open skies and tears (blue), grass and earth and _freedom_ (green). There should be life (purple) and passion (red) and _love_ (and _there_ was that gold again).

Try though Belle might, however, she could draw forth no recollections from these words, pull no emotions or associations to connect her to any of those things experienced by "other" people. Perhaps she _was_ crazy. Maybe the woman's lies were true, and she _was_ insane and _did_ deserve to be here and black wasn't black but white and this room was a cage to keep the white (black) out and—

White teeth sank into pink lips, drawing scarlet blood. A magenta tongue flicked out, the coppery taste of the blood a stinging burst of reality, eyelids flying open and cerulean eyes flashing. There was color, life—it just had to be found. The lies were lies, the truths hiding in the darkness beneath the churning grey where pitch black met _too_ white and left Belle in an island of solitude.

There should be more—more to life, more than this, more _color._ Black and white were the extremes, grey the intermediate, but there were so many pigments that should be there that simply _weren't_.

Where was the green that she remembered-but-didn't, the feel of flush grass beneath bare toes, the smell of raw earth and fresh air, _the glint of scaly skin in the dancing candlelight?_ Where were that blue, the sky and sea and chirping birds, _the sensible dress she wore the day he caught her?_ And the red, where were the flickering flames, the glowing ruby coals in the fireplace and the glory of the setting sun, _the high-brocaded coats and glinting impish gleam that once shone in mischievous eyes?_

The color Belle missed most, though, the one that left her feeling most alone and lost and afraid, the hue she felt both the most connected to and severed from, more than red or blue or orange or purple, was _gold._ Where was the gleaming coin, the single slender thread coiling down to pool on the floor with a mass of its brethren?

These thoughts more than any others kept her sane, despite the fact that there was no gold money in this place, no golden thread-that-was-straw to be spun from an antiquated wheel. These should the _in_ sane thoughts, the ones dragging her back down into the sludgy, charcoal pit that dogged her every waking moment, waiting to surge upward at the very first sign of weakness and consume everything that made her Belle.

But this, this _color—_ the merest thought of it warmed her soul to the core, infusing every facet of her body and being and filling her to the brim with its warm embrace, as though two slender, wiry arms had wrapped around her with the promise of unyielding vigilance and devotion. It was the sadness that followed such thoughts that really kept her anchored, though, and aching yearning that left her feeling hollow even as warmth infused her.

Gold was good—infinitely good, despite whatever she might be led to believe. Gold was strong and weak, the most precious of metals, yet malleable to any external force. Gold was bright, bringing light to darkness and chasing away shadows. Gold was everything to Belle—and she did not know why.

She had no _memories_ of it, no reason to love the color as she did. But, she _did_ love it, and the love kept her bright, kept her Belle. Her days and nights might have been filled with emptiness and pitch, consumed by black, white and grey, but her dreams—her dreams were filled with gold.


End file.
